Dungeon Sniper

"What do you mean, 'she volunteered?'"

I was back at the Runnels Eastern Camp before the nightbreak. Kevlon had just explained to me how Elysia was elected as the Elf champion with an uncomfortable smile.

"She said she needed a distraction, something to focus on other than... the past. And then there was the lottery, which she won, and we're here. Pure chance," shrugged Kevlon.

"And you didn't think of telling that 'something' could get her killed? I mean, none of you?"

I looked around the male Runnels: Baraka, Dumont, Illisiv, and Janon.

"What, Human, you think I enjoy taking a back seat and let some girl fight in the colosseum?" barked Dumont.

"At least you get to fight as a champion. I envy you, Beta," grumbled Baraka.

"Now, now, I understand it's a little unsettling that you may have to fight against Elysia."

"I don't think that's what's bothering Beta, Janon," said Illisiv.

"Then what... oh. Really? Beta and Elysia? When did that happen?" frowned Janon.

"The way I see it, it's just the Human infatuating over El. Trust me, I've been there," scoffed Dumont.

"Seriously? You're not worried? Elysia could get killed in the tournament!"

Not by me, of course, but by anyone else.

"And so could you. Have you thought about that?" asked Baraka prudently.

"I have. And you know what else I've thought about? Running away, with Elysia."

"Orcs do not run away. Your way of thinking sounds disgusting to my ears," Baraka shook his head.

"If you want to run, run. And the Humans will despair once again that they've lost yet another hero, who ran away, again," cajoled Dumont, smirking all around.

I snapped. I needed to.

"What's your f.u.c.k.i.n.g problem, Dumont?"

"You. The one whining and disparaging our tradition like it's some crap."

"It is crap. And if you don't like to hear me whining, why don't you make me shut up?"

"Oh, I can make you shut up, for good even."

"Not if I smash your teeth in first."

The damnably perfect, sparkling teeth.

"You and me, outside, right now," Dumont got up.

I got up as well, and no one stopped us. Not that I was going to let them stop me, but literally no one even moved from his seat.

"All right, I know you Elves are annoyingly calm at some points, and you, Baraka, obviously want to watch us fight—"

"I would rather fight myself, against either of you."

"—Right. But isn't this too calm? I mean, it's pretty heated between me and the hot-headed Goliath over here—"

"My name's Dumont."

"—Who thinks and talks like Goliath, who was probably retarded anyway, my point is, what's happening? I thought we were friends? That I was one of you?"

"Why would we stop you? You're already behind the schedule," said Kevlon calmly.

"Dumont was supposed to go first for your training. He insisted... violently," shrugged Illisiv, "Just be done with it by dinner. Janon's cooking tonight."

"That's right, folks. Tonight we go all-meat. And tomorrow and for the next two weeks!" exclaimed Janon, joined by the others, in genuine jubilation.

"Orcs love meat," nodded Baraka approvingly.

"Wait. I thought the Elves were vegetarians?"

"No, just Lapines. Which means no girls in the lot, no grass in the pot."

"Orcs hate grass," grimaced Baraka sincerely.

I chuckled and turned to Dumont, forgetting about the trash talk from earlier.

"What are you looking at, ugly face?"

Well, someone was still in character.

"Smile all you want now before I restructure the bones in your Orcish visage. No offense, Baraka," said Dumont.

"None taken. Although, Beta would still be considered ugly in the Orcish standard."

"Funny. Nice one, B."

"I was not joking," blinked the Orc earnestly.

"Stop stalling and come outside. Come at me like a man, only if you are one, Human," Dumont stepped out of the tent with a jeer.

"Five minutes, tops," whispered Janon to Illisiv.

"I heard that, J!"

"I meant Dumont. Dumont wouldn't last five minutes," gulped Janon unconvincingly. No one, including me, bought that.

I lasted two minutes before Dumont knocked me out with a hilt strike on my forehead.

.

.

.

"He can't go melee. He's hopeless. Pathetic. He'll get killed right away," said Dumont.

"Uh, why are you smiling, Dumont?"

I could picture Illisiv's confused frown even with my eyes closed.

"Because he's hopeless and pathetic," chuckled Dumont freely.

I was lying on the cold ground, with a burning forehead, and aching all over. I had been pretending to have passed out the past few minutes following my ninth knockout, which had lasted barely more than ten seconds. The rest of the Runnel boys spectated the lopsided duel from the third bout: a pre-dinner show of a Human being pummeled and toyed helplessly and gracelessly.

I was hearing the group talking casually among themselves, but I could not get up now. Not because I was embarrassed or anything, but I literally, physically could not get up.

"Should we wake him up? He's been down for a while now," said Janon worriedly.

"I bet he's too embarrassed to get up. Let him sleep through his shame," said Dumont, probably with a smirk.

"You know, I have the perfect potion to get him on his feet with just a sip—"

"I'm good," I got up hastily before Kevlon could come near me with his poison. I instantly g.r.o.a.n.e.d at the worse-than-expected pain across my body. Dumont did not cut me with his longsword, but he made sure to use every part but the blade to hit every part of my body but the groin area. Hey, he might be cruel, but he was not completely evil.

"I've fought against the Goblins and the Dwarves, so I know what I'm getting from those two races. I'm looking at an Orc right now, so I know he's a problem. What about the Reptil champion? Should I be worried about them too?"

"You should be worried about all of them, if you ask me."

"Well, I didn't ask you, Dumont. And for the record, I've killed a few Goblins and Dwarves before, and by few I'm being humble and I actually mean like a bunch."

"We're talking about 'champions' here. They're not your typical Goblins or Dwarves," smiled Kevlon wryly.

"How different could they be?"

"For one, expect a freak Goblin, with the size as big as you and me. As for the Dwarf warrior, an actual trained soldier from the Northwestern Dwarven Hold will be present, not one of those drunkard miners at Minetown," explained Janon.

"Soldiers or housewives, all Dwarves are drunkards though," added Illisiv.

"True that, but still, strength-wise, a typical Dwarf is as strong as a typical Orc."

"That is a hoax," snarled Baraka.

"Well, I'm afraid it's tested and proven countless times in the past, Baraka."

"Orcs underperform in tests. We test ourselves only in wars. Real, authentic wars."

"Right. You heard him, Beta. Expect the Orc champion to be waging a one-man's war against everyone."

"As should she," nodded Baraka proudly.

"She? The Orc champion is a female?"

"Her name is Moniqa, a descendant of Rafaqa himself. Steel-willed, naturally charismatic, and, of course, unearthly beautiful. The perfect Orcina, the dream spouse of every Orcino."

"I believe you, except the part about being beautiful."

"She is beautiful," said Baraka indignantly.

"Sure. And do we know anything about the other champions? Should I be prepared before I face a female Reptil? Would I be able to tell apart the females from males?"

"Actually, it's funny because female Reptils are—"

But Dumont cut in before Janon could keep the idle conversation going.

"We don't have time for chitchats, Human. You need to be taught how to fight, from scratch, and every minute counts. It's a wonder how you've survived for so long with your... deplorable fundamentals."

Well, what did we have here? Could it be that Elysia lied to me, or was she mistaken about Dumont? Because Dumont seemed like an eager teacher and not just some hothead who wanted to torment me with his superior fighting skills... or both. For all I knew, he had just found a legitimate way to torture me without looking like a total jerk.

"Dumont is right. You need help, Beta, and I will help you with all I can, that is if you can withstand the strict Orcish training regimen. The other races have tried to copy our ways, only to throw up blood and become disabled after the brutal, merciless course."

"Great. I'll definitely skip on that one."

"But I have a feeling you will survive," added Baraka hurriedly.

"No, I won't. Next."

"Please allow me to train you. Let me have a part in the colosseum," begged Baraka as desperately as an impassive, stoic Orc could do.

Kevlon cleared his throat importantly.

"Well, Beta, you can always count on me to provide you with the most innovative, potent potions—"

"Next."

"If the colosseum tournaments dealt with horseback fighting, I could've helped, but it seems like I'll just be providing food and refreshment for you," said Illisiv apologetically.

"Illisiv, that's the most touching, supportive thing I've heard since birth."

Since this birth, anyway.

"And you know where to find me if you need a fresh gear and set of weapons," smiled Janon confidently.

"Thanks guys, for all the help."

"Colosseum Ultimatum is a festival for us. We're doing this for ourselves just as for you," Kevlon waved me off meekly.

"Yes. The festival where a member of each race goes out to kill each other. How fun."

"It's not always like that. In the beginning, deaths were more common. But right before the moratorium, the champions died due to accidents rather than murderous intent."

"Hence the fun was lost thereafter," grumbled Baraka.

"And you can guess which race's champion to avoid if you want to live," smiled Kevlon awkwardly.

"Orcs adhere to the tradition. Five races dead with one race remaining. The symbolic, ritualistic representation of the Universal Transcendence," grunted the disgruntled Orc.

"What's he on about now?" I frowned and turned to Kevlon for help.

"It's a legend of sibylline source that a well-executed Colosseum Ultimatum will result in an epiphany of the so-called Universal Transcendence."

"You lost me at 'sibylline,' whatever that means."

Seriously. Some words these Elves, and Goblins and Orcs, used. The Dwarves and the Reptils talked pretty normally, at least.

"Simply put, the Gate above the colosseum is supposed to open when all but one champion die at the end of the tournament."

"But it doesn't?"

"No. That's why it's a legend. A myth. After years of trials and disappointments, Colosseum Ultimatum became what it is now, a festivity, with only the idea of keeping peace through a mock, one man's war preserved and promoted. No one really expects the Gate to open anymore."

"I do," said Baraka sullenly.

"Well, some do," corrected Kevlon politely.

I blinked. So much information had been registered in less than a minute, and I did not know how to react.

All this time I thought going down, or up, to the next Level would be easy. Even when I was hearing the legends of the heroes 'Transcending' and leaving the Level for good, I did not connect the stories with moving onto the next Level.

"The Gate, that's the only way to, uh, Transcend to the next level, then?"

"Theologically, and theoretically, yes. But practically speaking... What's wrong, Beta? You look pale."

Kevlon looked at me worriedly. I looked around and met the eyes of the fresh acquaintances, the friends in development.

I thought of the missing members of the Runnels in the Western Camp, and the one beautiful Elfina particular.

At the same time, an image of a giant Gate floating in the air, slowly opening, flashed before my eyes. I was standing right below it and on top of five dead bodies of the different races... including Elysia.